A blank page, the start of something new. A space for exploring the dark corners of my mind, and for sharing the shadows of what I find. It would have to be shadows, because how arrogant would I have to be to think I possessed the capacity to translate thought into words in a way to make all readers interpret and comprehend the same unfathomable concept as the one in my mind. Shadows and blurred outlines will have to suffice, as a hint to you and reminder to myself, an attempt to bring life and colour to things untouchable and invisible.
Writing. Writing for me is a tool, a tool I cherish. I hold a pen poised over paper, or wriggle my fingers over a keyboard and feel like I write on instinct. I don’t always follow my primary voice of consciousness, the narrator of my life, but normally find myself writing from a different part of my brain, one further back and less attention seeking. Sometimes I write, and then read it back to hear, for what seems like the first time, my own opinion on something. I find that this happens more when I write with pen and paper rather than a keyboard and screen. My unconscious thoughts flow out more organically and unpolluted through ink than text.
It is the wonder of writing that it teaches you so much about yourself.
tonightatsunset 